


Nemesis

by NeurotropicAgentX



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Enemies, Hate Make-Outs, M/M, Obsession, Threats, What Happens at the World Tournament Stays at the World Tournament
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 11:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13997622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeurotropicAgentX/pseuds/NeurotropicAgentX
Summary: From the first moments of his life, Piccolo had known that his purpose, hisdestiny, was to avenge King Piccolo’s death by tearing Goku apart. It was the clearest thing in his thoughts. Reclaiming his power and skills and even language itself was often like grabbing at half-glimpsed spectres, but Goku’s face was burned into his mind. He knew it better than he knew King Piccolo’s face, better than he knew his own.





	Nemesis

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my editor for all her assistance.

It was the night before the final battle in the World Tournament and Piccolo was restless. Tomorrow would decide the fate of the world. He floated high in the air, halfway between the arena and the competitors’ quarters. He was sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed, trying to capture that elusive sense of peace he sometimes managed in the depths of meditation. His skin felt too tight across his body and the desire to rip into something, to fight, to _move_ pounded in time with his pulse. 

Once it was morning, he’d be stepping into the arena. He wouldn’t have to hold back then. The tournament rules meant he hadn’t been able to kill his opponents without being disqualified, which would have lost him the chance of facing Goku. But this was the last fight and could finally give himself over to the roaring bloodlust. The Tournament didn’t matter. The _world_ barely mattered. Only the pleasure of destroying Goku in full view of his friends, in full view of _everyone_ , mattered.

Piccolo’s hands clenched into fists against his knees and his lips peeled back from his fangs at the mere thought of his fated opponent. From the first moments of his life, Piccolo had known that his purpose, his _destiny_ , was to avenge King Piccolo’s death by tearing Goku apart. It was the clearest thing in his thoughts. Reclaiming his power and skills and even language itself was often like grabbing at half-glimpsed spectres, but Goku’s face was burned into his mind. He knew it better than he knew King Piccolo’s face, better than he knew his own.

Piccolo’s eyes snapped open. There was sound, movement, near the door of the building where all the fighters were sleeping. He turned his head, focusing on the noise.

Piccolo’s heart rate kicked up and a renewed wave of battle-fury washed over him. It was Goku, _of course_ it was Goku, slipping out of the building. Was he going to train? Was he afraid? Or was he feeling that same deep tug of restlessness that was consuming Piccolo? That thought had Piccolo narrowing his eyes and he straightened up in mid-air, instinctively following Goku’s trail without giving it a second thought.

Goku was wearing his battle gi, but he didn’t look like he was going to train. His head was down, like he was ignoring his surroundings, and he wandered aimlessly through the deserted streets outside the Champions’ Compound. He did look restless. 

Piccolo shadowed him for blocks as Goku left the city centre. There were barely any people around this late. Not when the concluding fight of the World Tournament was going to happen early the next morning. When Goku slipped into a particularly narrow side-street, Piccolo floated down to the mouth of the alleyway and landed lightly behind him. 

Goku didn’t even turn around. For a moment Piccolo was struck by the overwhelming desire to raise his hands and simply blast him. It might not even kill him, but he could image the way Goku would cry out, the surprise and pain in his voice. He’d spin around, prepare his own attack and then they’d fight. They’d grapple and snarl, spill each other’s blood…

Piccolo ruthlessly supressed the impulse. Goku might not fight back. He might go to the Tournament organisers and get Piccolo disqualified for picking a fight outside the arena. Piccolo had obeyed the petty rules this long and he couldn’t risk it. The most important thing wasn’t just winning, but being seen to win. He didn’t just want to take his revenge on Goku. He wanted the world.

Piccolo knew he should leave right now, before he did something reckless. Instead he watched Goku for another few heartbeats. He should leave. 

‘Goku,’ he called out.

Goku spun around, his hands rising and his weight shifting into a fighting stance. It was a fascinating thing to watch. It looked so fluid and instinctive. Piccolo had struggled for every bit of skill he’d reclaimed. The knowledge was _there_ inside him, he could _feel_ it, but it was buried beneath useless thoughts and memories and emotions. Sometimes it was easier not to go digging in his own head at all. 

‘King Piccolo,’ Goku said, his tone flat with anger. If anything, his fighting-stance got firmer, more deliberate.

Piccolo’s expression tightened. He didn’t like the slew of… things… that happened in his head when Goku called him that. He was King Piccolo, he _was_. He had a destiny and a future and he remembered stuff and he wasn’t _dead_. But it was uncomfortable hearing it out loud. Probably because Goku was the enemy, his _murderer_. That must have been why.

Piccolo let his expression spread into a slow smirk that showed off his fangs. People were scared of the way he looked and he knew how to use that. ‘I didn’t think you had that much respect for the title,’ he said.

Goku scowled at him. The way his hands twitched made it look like he was holding back the same impulse that Piccolo was fighting. Maybe he wouldn’t report it if they fought here. It wouldn’t even have to be a real fight to the death, not yet. Goku wanted to do this properly in the arena too. Piccolo knew it, could almost feel it. 

‘Were you following me?’ Goku demanded.

‘I have better things to do than follow you,’ Piccolo said. And it was true, he did, which made it all the more irritating that he’d chosen to follow his enemy.

Goku stared at him for a long moment. ‘I’m not going to fight you now,’ he said, but he sounded just a little uncertain and his stance shifted like he was about to lean into an attack. ‘It’s not allowed.’ His voice was a lot firmer when he said that.

‘Don’t worry. When I kill you it’s going to be in front of your friends. I’m not going to risk losing _that_.’

A puzzled look crossed Goku’s face. ‘You’ll be disqualified,’ he pointed out.

Piccolo snarled at him. ‘The only reason I’ve been following the stupid rules in this tournament is to get the chance to kill you in front of the world! I don’t care about what happens after that!’ He felt the tension in his body ramp up as he said that. It was true, too true to admit to someone like Goku. There was this great yawning emptiness ahead of him whenever he tried to think about what would happen _after_ he’d killed Goku. He recoiled from the thought like usual, locking it away. It got buried in the same place as his current desire to lunge at Goku, to get his hands on him and rip and…

Goku was speaking again and Piccolo was almost grateful for the distraction. ‘You don’t have to kill, you know. Not me, not anyone,’ Goku said. His tone was different now, nothing like anything from Piccolo’s memories of him. Not that he was eager to go searching for more of those.

‘I don’t have to do anything,’ Piccolo snapped. ‘I _want_ to. And you’re the killer here. You didn’t have to, but you _did_.’ 

Goku’s stance changed, his hands slowly lowering and some of the tension easing from his body. ‘I didn’t want to kill you, to kill King Piccolo. He left me no choice. I don’t like killing and I would never do it unless there was no other choice.’ His voice was quiet now and he barely looked like a threat. It was enraging.

Piccolo took a step forward. His hands curled into fists and he could feel his claws pressing into his palms. They didn’t pierce his skin anymore. He’d built up scars there during his training. ‘Well, I know why you don’t want to kill me now. You can’t destroy me without destroying your friend. _Kami_.’ Piccolo practically hissed the name of his counterpart. The one who’d tried to trap him. Trap him _again_ , his memories whispered. In the dark, confined, alone, _trapped_. Not again. _Never_ again. But now Kami was the one trapped and Piccolo couldn’t have wished for a more fitting revenge. The elation that had sang through him as he’d manipulated Kami’s own Containment Wave. He imagined that was what it would feel like to tear Goku apart.

Goku was glaring again. He hadn’t gone back into his fighting stance, but it looked like he _wanted_ to. Piccolo grinned at him.

‘You should let him go. What you’re doing is wrong,’ Goku said.

‘I don’t care and I like Kami just where he is.’

This time Goku was the one to take a step forward. Piccolo’s breath caught. They were close enough to touch. It would be nothing, no effort at all, to slam his fist into Goku’s scowling face. If he was fast and Goku wasn’t expecting it, maybe he could break his nose. Piccolo imagined blood dripping down Goku’s face from the wound, the rage in his eyes, his own fist sailing forward in retaliation. 

‘You’re the only one who even has a chance of stopping me and you’re weak,’ Piccolo said, staring directly into Goku’s narrowed eyes. ‘You’re weak and you’re sentimental and once I’m done taking you to pieces I’ll start on your friends. Then I’ll I have the world and I’ll destroy that too. Slowly.’ And he wanted that. He _did_. So what if he couldn’t picture it in his head? He _remembered_ doing that. Picking cities at a whim and destroying them one at a time while people screamed and panicked. He remembered laughing.

‘You leave my friends out of this! You leave the _world_ out of this! I’m the one you want, Piccolo. This is between you and me.’

Piccolo leaned in closer. His pulse was thundering in his ears. Maybe he could even hear Goku’s. They were standing close enough. He was unprepared for what those words did to him. This _was_ between them. Goku was his most important target, the _only_ target. His friends, the world, they only mattered because Goku cared about them and Piccolo would take them away, tear them apart and _laugh_. And something deeper than that, something deeper than even the memories and the knowledge and the skills, liked the sound of his name when Goku was snarling it. Piccolo. Not King Piccolo. Not _Junior_. Just Piccolo.

And then Piccolo seized the front of Goku’s gi and slammed him against the wall of the alleyway. He wanted to hit him, wanted to throw himself against him, wanted to claw and bite and _hurt_. Goku’s fists came up, but Piccolo was faster. He let go so he could grab Goku’s wrists instead and forced them back against the wall. Goku tested his grip with a snarl and pure victory sung through Piccolo as he managed to hold on. He was stronger, he was, he knew it. No one was at his level, no one had his power, not even Goku, not even the best champion the world could send against him. And then _somehow_ Goku twisted out of the hold. It wasn’t strength, he’d just _moved_ and Piccolo couldn’t hold on at that angle, felt his grip break and then Goku was grapping _his_ gi and hooked a foot behind Piccolo’s ankle and the world spun and suddenly it was Piccolo against the alley wall with Goku growling in his face.

It wasn’t possible! It was trickery of some sort. _Skill_ , his memories whispered. Piccolo had fought skilled fighters, had seen the way they moved. Even the best fighters couldn’t stand against his power level, couldn’t blast with their ki, couldn’t fly. All the skill in the world didn’t matter against someone as strong as him and that was the way things were meant to be. And now, for the first time in his life, Piccolo felt a twinge of unease. Maybe skill would matter when he was fighting someone like Goku, someone who was _close_ to his power level.

Piccolo didn’t make a grab for Goku because he didn’t want to get his wrists pinned. Instead he surged forward and sunk his teeth into Goku’s lip. Goku made a sharp noise against his mouth and bit him back. The sudden thrill of pain raced through Piccolo. It wasn’t quite like anything he’d felt before. This world and its people were shadows and nothing had ever been able to touch him, _hurt_ him. Only Kami had been a danger and that had been the threat of _absence_ , not of _this_. 

The urge for more combat, for fighting and blood, howled and clashed against different impulses that were just as ferocious and immediate. Piccolo grabbed at Goku, his claws catching on that stupid, bright gi and in Goku’s hair. The bricks behind him scraped at the back of his cloak as Goku pressed in closer to him. Even through the layers of cloth, Piccolo could feel the heat of Goku’s body as a stark contrast to the cold night air and his own muted temperature. 

Piccolo’s heart hammered in his chest. The exultant rush of this was almost like combat and all his senses felt sharper. Even the light pressure of the backs of Goku’s knuckles digging into his chest felt good, especially as they dragged against him on every sharp inhale. Then Goku tore his mouth away and sunk his teeth into the edge of Piccolo’s ear. Piccolo roared as conflicting feelings of pain-enjoyment-threat and that underlying elation all crashed into him at once. He yanked at Goku’s hair, but that just made him moan and bite harder.

Goku was distracted, but Piccolo felt like the world had gone from blurry to sharp-edged. He was barely conscious of the way he was moving, letting deeper parts of him act as he slid around Goku’s body and reversed their positions. Goku’s back hit the wall again and he let go of Piccolo’s ear to gasp. Piccolo wrenched himself away and they stood facing one another, panting. 

Piccolo was used to being pulled by instincts and impulses he only vaguely understood. But what he was feeling now was different to the whispers of his memory, different from the nebulous emotions and fragments of knowledge. It felt like it was welling up from somewhere deeper and it made him wary. No matter what parts of him were screaming to throw himself back at Goku, there was the tournament to consider. That fight would be everything. It would certainly be more than _this_. 

‘Don’t you dare tell the organisers we were fighting,’ Piccolo threatened. 

Goku was smiling at him, but it wasn't quite his normal smile. Piccolo didn’t care for it. ‘This wasn’t fighting. I’m not sure what this was.’ His gaze flicked down to where Piccolo had his hands fisted in his gi. Piccolo hastily let go. He hadn’t even been aware he was still holding on. 

‘Whatever. If you get me disqualified, I’m coming for your friends _first_.’

Goku’s smile grew teeth and he didn’t look away. ‘You won’t. Not while I’m here.’

Piccolo grunted. He backed away a couple of steps before taking to the sky. Tomorrow would fix everything. One of them would be dead and Piccolo wouldn’t have to think about anything except filling the empty abyss the stretched outward from the point of Goku’s death. 

‘See you tomorrow, Piccolo,’ Goku called out after him.

Piccolo ignored the way his name sounded when Goku said it. Just _his_ name.


End file.
